The detective took the paper and slid it into a plastic evidence bag.

“We need to take your statement,” he said.

“And your wife’s, when she is strong enough.”

“We also have the security footage from the nursery.”

“The hospital administration is cooperating fully.”

I looked at Megan.

She gave me a small, tired nod.

“I can talk,” she whispered to the detective.

“She did this to me.”

“She brought the tea to our apartment.”

“She wanted my baby.”

Detective Harris pulled out a small notepad.

“Tell me everything from the beginning,” he said.

We spent the next hour explaining the months of harassment.

I told him about the crib she had brought over.

The painted wood that had made Megan dizzy when she sanded it.

The toxic fumes.

The lead paint.

I told him about how she had isolated us.

How she had insisted on cooking for Megan.

Megan described the stomach cramps.

The sudden drops in her blood pressure.

The way my mother would smile when Megan felt sick.

The detective wrote everything down in silence.

When we finished, his face was grim.